Haloween Scribbles
by StArBarD
Summary: Just some stuff I came up with while trying to do my homework on halloween and NOT trick or treating. Condescending Mycroft, Psychopath Jim, Angry Sherlock, Mostly innocent pumpkin, Awesome Lestrade (He's always awesome) No slash, just Halloween fun. No particular character focus, just Halloween fun.
1. Carving Pumpkins

**Just some stuff I wrote while trying to do my HW on Halloween. This is the first year I haven't trick or treated.**

* * *

John: "Sherlock… What is that?"

Sherlock:" Experiment."

John: "Not it's not, it's a Jack-o-lantern! Are you carving a Jack-o-lantern?"

Sherlock: "…"

John: "Right, stupid question. Okay, Why are you carving a Jack-o-lantern?"

Sherlock: "Don't patronize me John."

John: "Why didn't you carve one around Halloween?"

Sherlock: "It's never too late to carve a pumpkin."

John: "Christmas is too late, Sherlock."


	2. Chapter 2: Please Mycroft?

(Mycroft is working at his desk on a computer. He looks up at the clock and sighs. Anthea enters.)

Anthea: "Sir, You're costume is ready downstairs."

Mycroft: (utterly disgusted) "My what?"

Anthea: "Costume, sir; for the party?"

(Mycroft shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose sighing)

Mycroft: "Anthea, how long have we known each other?"

Anthea: "A few years sir."

Mycroft: "When have I ever gone to one of those pointless, inane parties?"

Anthea: "Never sir, but-"

Mycroft: "You know me fairly well by now, tell me: about how often do I alter my habits?"

Anthea: "Never sir."

Mycroft: "Exactly. Therefore I will spend this, unholy night of squealing children and screaming ghouls locked in the bliss of perpetual solitude which is the Diogenes club. Good night."

Anthea: (disappointed) "Oh."

Mycroft: (picking up his jacket to leave) "You seem surprised."

Anthea: No sir not surprised. Just disappointed. Every one chipped in for this year's costume. I even sewed it myself. It'll be a shame. Everyone was so looking forward to it."

Mycroft: (Rocking on the balls of his feet): "I suppose you'll at least want me to try it on out of… social convention as a form of good will."

Anthea: "Not at all sir, it's your prerogative, not mine."

(Silence for a beat)

Mycroft: I suppose it…wouldn't kill me…"

(Anthea smiles)

* * *

**Does anyone else think Anthea should have been in more than just the first episode? Seriously!**


	3. Chapter 3: Lestrade's Costume

**This is actually sort of a prologue to my other story ****_Halloween_****. I suggest you read that also, but you don't have to. You should, but not if you don't want to. Really. I'm not going to force you to do anything. I'm not that kind of person. you're under no pressure at all. None whatsoever.**

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade strode dejectedly down the street. He'd finally been invited to a Halloween party with a friend, and he was off work on Halloween, but he hadn't anything resembling a costume.

The fact was he'd never been invited to a Halloween party before. He'd always been working. Weird stuff happens on Halloween and generally that meant homicide division would end up losing sleep running around a real-life horror show of a crime scene and working through the haunted night glaring at his screen or tiptoeing around a body.

But Dimmock had changed all that. Having a newbie on the force meant that the old dogs like himself could use their seniority to take a well-deserved break on Halloween and take back the night.

So it had been a pleasant surprise when John invited him to the little party that he was dragging Sherlock to. Lestrade didn't think that they were that close in the first place since they never saw each other outside of work. Now he would have to invite John to sling a few pints sometime.

He strolled past a window and happened to glance up when he saw it—The costume of his dreams! Before he had fully registered his shock his feet carried him into the store and he stood gawking at it in complete awe.

"You like?" He spun around and found himself eye-to eye with a freckled red-headed teenager that was running the store.

"I'm just looking." He said, suddenly becoming aloof. He didn't want the teen to know he was interested just yet; she might jack up the price on it without him being any the wiser. He glanced at the price tag out of the corner of his eye as he shuffled along pretending to be interested in the Phantom of the Opera that was displayed on a grim-looking mannequin.

It was well within his budget, and just his size.

Lestrade smiled as he pretended the Luke Skywalker costume had something interesting on it. Great things like this just never happened to a guy like him! There had to be some catch!

He skulked back over to the beautiful black costume and stroked one sleeve affectionately, feigning disinterest.

He turned to the teenager, who was twirling her flaming red hair around one finger lazily. Adel belted out a string of notes in the background.

"I'll try on this one." He said restraining his jittery pleasure.

"Dressing rooms in the back." The girl pointed to a few stalls shrouded behind a black curtain.

Lestrade stripped the costume from the wall and all but ran to the curtain, slinging it away as he gripped the coat in his hands tightly.

He slid each arm tenderly into the sleeves, frightened that at any moment he would prove to be too big or too fat after all, but to his ever-increasing delight it fit like a dream, perfectly over his broad shoulders. He pulled up the pants which effortlessly hugged his waist.

Unbelievably, it fit perfectly.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Two neat rows of silver buttons dotted his chest, roads of silver lining streaked around his wrists and hips, his pants and shirt was creased in a relaxed, yet dignified manner.

It was the uniform of Scotland Yard from about the turn of the century. The 20th century.

Lestrade smiled when he thought of all the men who had worn the uniform, all of the honor and all of the glory and all of the stigmas that were blazed into the buttons like drills of ice. He puffed up his chest and stood erect, like a soldier, proudly admiring himself in his new uniform.

He parted the curtain and peered out.

The teenager was busy reading a magazine.

He slipped off the costume, put his normal clothes on and went to check out; giddy with joy.


	4. Chapter 4: Jim's Halloween

**Warning! Scary Jim ahead! Read on at your own risk! Temporary rating upgrade to K+ Little kids should read no more!**

* * *

"Why so low boss?"

James Moriarty, criminal mastermind, glanced dejectedly over his shoulder at his new sniper, sighed enormously and turned back around.

"You wouldn't understand. You just don't _get_ me."

"Missing Sebbie?" his sniper teased.

Normal men would have been terrified, but that particular sniper was actually Moriarty's only sniper at the moment (He hadn't quite rebuilt his organization yet, and rouge snipers are damn hard to come by) and he was so secure of his position that he felt safe tormenting the sleeping monster.

Jim proved him wrong, however, by shooting him in the leg.

The man yipped in pain and collapsed into a writhing heap as Jim pushed his hair away from his forehead with the butt of the gun. It felt wonderfully cool.

"Nah, I'm just stressing a little about what to do for Halloween this year. I'm still on the low-key, so it can't be anything too extravagant." He said picking up his laptop and putting it gingerly on his lap.

"Wh-wh-wh…" His sniper tried to speak, but the pain made him grit his teeth and clench his jaw in a pained silence. He released his breath in jagged gasps and rolled onto his back, wiping his blood on the front of his tee shirt and turning the gray cotton black.

"I suppose I could just give out candy to children, but that would be too boring. Plus candy is, like, super expensive right now…"

Jim rocked back and forth, reading his laptop carefully and scratching his temple with the loaded pistol.

"Just blow up something you freakin…" The sniper exploded in a groan of pain, but another spasm silenced him with an agonized squeal.

"I did that the year before." Jim whined.

The only noise in the darkened room was the sound of the sniper's pained gasping. The only light was the dull blue glow from Jim's laptop.

"Tra-tri-tri-tri-kuh!" The sniper might just have been babbling in his prison of torture, but Jim swiveled

. around. He thought he had heard something genius, and it didn't come from him.

"Trick or treating; hey, yeah that sounds like fun!" He exclaimed hopping up out of his cushiony chair and tossing his laptop carelessly behind himself.

"Too old." The sniper managed as his vision swam in dangerous-looking dark ripples.

"Free candy! You're never too old for free candy! At any rate, if they don't hand over the treats I could always stick them up for it!" Jim walked over and jabbed the barrel of the gun into the snipers ribs. He received a frightened whimper for his trouble.

"Man, I need a costume! Something cool, dark… something like me!" Jim exclaimed checking his pockets for his wallet.

"Help." The sniper feebly managed to say as the consulting criminal stepped over him on his way out the door.

Jim looked over him, giving him a fleeting consideration as his one and only sniper, and gestures vaguely around the flat.

"There's some gauze and forceps in the kitchen cabinet. Third from the fridge on the left hand side. Do stop bleeding on my carpet?"

The sniper looked up at the kitchen, several meters away, and the cabinet, several feet in the air. He sees what he has to do in order to help himself and wonders if this might be a test, or if his new boss really doesn't care about his employees.

He must drag himself to the kitchen, then somehow support himself on his injured leg long enough to find the medical equipment. Then his boss expected him to pick the bullet out from his own leg.

Jim slammed the door shut and sauntered down the hall, excited for costume shopping and the possibility of new mischief on the night of one thousand frights.


	5. Chapter 5: Mycroft's costume

**Continuation of Ch 2: Mycroft's costume!**

* * *

"What is this?"

Mycroft holds out his arms, like he's expecting a hug and the black fabric drops from the sleeves of his sleek black suit to its full height, looking, for all purposes, like bat wings.

"I told you sir." Anthea says, staring at her boss, gauging the reaction. "It's a bat."

"So I'm in the bat-suit? Is that it?" He speaks calmly, but Anthea can hear the storm rumbling behind the tone.

"Yes sir, it suits you well, if I may say so." Anthea quickly adds.

"What is this stuff anyway." He says rubbing the black fabric in between his forefinger and thumb.

"An umbrella I doctored."

Mycroft looks faintly horrified and scans the room in search of his own beloved umbrella.

"Two of my own, I assure you." She hurriedly says.

"Oh. Well then."

Mycroft stares at his costume for a moment, evaluating it under his eagle vision. When he decides that enough time has passed he looks to his PA.

"I'm still not going to the party."

"Damn." Anthea says, not caring about what her boss thinks of her at that moment. She has been trying to convince Mycroft to go to the yearly Halloween party for years, but he obstinately refuses to go. Most of the older members of the Government do, but it is still a fun distraction to attempt to convince Mycroft Holmes of his obligation to go.

"Though, thank you for the consideration." Mycroft says, not looking grateful at all.

Anthea rolls her eyes. Someday she'll see him at the party.


	6. Chapter 6: Pumpkin punt

**Last one. Remember I did these all in one night. I might continue if anyone's interested. If you are interested, but I don't want to continue, which is possible, I suggest you read my other Halloween story, appropriately named ****_Halloween_****. It should at least give you dsomething to do until I finish my homework, if you truly are bored.**

* * *

Jim secured the microphone behind the eyes of the jack-o-lantern; in the area that he supposed would be the temple if it were actually a head. He taped it to the orange flesh and hooked the battery and the receiver out of sight.

He screwed the device into his ear and turned on the receiver that was hooked to his hip, much like a Walkman.

He picked up the orange head and leaned in as close as possible, until he was almost kissing the jagged peach lips.

"Testing, testing one-two-three?" He said, and heard it echoed in his ear. He grinned wolfishly.

"Here." He tossed the pumpkin to his thief-employee who caught it barely by the tips of his sticky fingers.

"On their dining room table, don't let the land lady see you!" He warned wagging one finger menacingly. The thief nodded, his shaggy brown hair falling over his eyes.

#

"Idiot! Idiot! I work with idiots!" Sherlock fumed as he stormed into the flat.

"How was he supposed to know it was a bomb? It looked like an ordinary book!" John exclaimed following Sherlock closely, nervous about his flat mate's swinging arms and their proximity to the vase of flowers he'd gotten for his birthday.

"How? How, John?" Sherlock whipped around and pinned John to the wall with his penetrating glare. "Because I told him, that's how!"

John rolled his eyes, not bothering to remind Sherlock that he'd warned Anderson about the bomb as he was discovering it, not before.

"Fine, whatever. Tomorrow we'll go to the hospital and pay him a visit…"

"No!" Sherlock spat out his refusal like a spoilt toddler and he crossed his arms and flopped down on the sofa like a teenager. John blinked.

"We have to see him at the hospital Sherlock."

"Why? He'll be out by tomorrow."

"We still have to go." John insisted.

"Fine!" Sherlock roared, rolling over so that he didn't have to look at John. John rolled his eyes and strode to his room, before he lost his temper and started a fight with Sherlock that he would regret.

All the while, in a flat across town Jim Moriarty flashed a feral smile at his wall, feeling like a ghost listening in on their conversations without being seen. He barely stifled his manic giggling in a fit of ecstasy.

Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach, but found that he was still uncomfortable. He rolled two more times and found that he just couldn't find a good spot to lie in. Frustrated and angry he looked around the flat for something to demolish. Mrs. Hudson had stolen his gun a few weeks prior, and Lestrade had borrowed his harpoon for a fishing trip, so the smiley face on the wall was safe…for now.

Come to think of it, he had a crossbow, but no arrows. He'd broken them in an experiment.

He gazed absently around his flat, searching for something that wouldn't be missed. Something he could punch or burn or annihilate.

His eyes lighted on one orange relic, wearing a nasty grin and just loafing on the kitchen counter wedged in between a few flasks and a graduated cylinder filled to the sixty milliliter mark with blood (experiment). He walked over and stared at his potential victim, probably John's attempt to celebrate that inane pagan holiday.

He picked up the pumpkin and nestled it by his stomach, wrapped securely in his arms like he might hold a kitten, only the dark gleam of annoyance in his eyes hinted at his true disposition as he carried the gourd out of 221b and into the streets of London.

Jim heard a little bit of shuffling and a thrill of fear chilled him to the bone. Could Sherlock have discovered his trick so easily? Was the game up before it even started?

He heard the plodding of footsteps and the tell-tale creaking of the stair that meant the pumpkin was leaving Baker street. Jim swore.

The creaking of the door, the sound of cars racing past on the road, then a whooshing, a happy cry and a sickening _thwack!_

Afterwards silence.

Sherlock paused at the doorframe to scrape the orange flesh off his shoes against the wood. The pumpkin was now 234c's problem. He was rather proud of how far the unassuming gourd had flown.


	7. Chapter 7: Don Moriarty

**:) I continued it. I just realized I hadn't included Sebastian Moran, and then this happened. I'm glad he made an apperance in these scribbles, because it gives me incentive to do an interesting two-shot later on.**

* * *

Sebastian Moran hates Halloween.

Which, he just doesn't get; it was his favorite thing when he was a kid. He used to mark off the days on the calendar until Halloween, he used to go costume shopping in the summer time, he used to plan his candy route beforehand so he would be better prepared should he be on a tight schedule and a house happens to be giving away large bars of chocolate.

Speaking frankly, Halloween was great for three reasons, first, he thought it was the coolest thing that for one night each year he could be someone else. He was always a super hero, or a scary monster, or basically anything but Sebastian-the-skinny-punk. Second, it was a great opportunity to get out of his house and away from his father. Third, he used to roam the streets every night anyway, it was nice when they were all decorated and when he could walk past other monsters instead of wandering lonely and forlorn till the early morning hours.

But his opinion of Halloween drastically changed when he discovered to his horror, that it was his boss's favorite holiday too.

James Moriarty stepped out of the back room of the flat they were renting for a very important client. The client footed the bill for the rooms, and Sebastian would live in them until he could shoot the neighbor who lived right across the street and finish the job. It was a fair set-up.

But now Jim took liberties in the rooms, showing off his new outfit to his favorite sniper, who would either sit and take it, or get demoted.

There was no demoted in the organization, there was favorite, or floating face-down in the Thames.

So, Jim opened the door of the bedroom and strode out confidently, wearing a blue pin-striped suit and a rose in his pocket, folded up against his breast and Sebastian pretended to admire it.

Jim strolled down the hallway like a runway model, making a little turn as he entered the sitting room a and showing of his whole ensemble. Sebastian noticed he'd slicked his hair back with some more of that god-awful product he liked. He ground his teeth together and said nothing, even though whatever Jim liked to put in his hair usually stank afterwards, and the scent would linger in the bath room; _his bathroom_, for hours.

"What do you think?" Jim asked playfully, but Sebastian could see the seriousness in his eyes.

"I think you look great boss." Sebastian said, thinking silently to himself: "_I think you look like a prick asking to get mugged. A flower? What are you thinking?"_

"Can you guess who I am?" He asked, basking in the admiration and pleased with his response.

"_Christ! It's a costume!"_ Sebastian thought, beginning to panic. "Okay_, okay, play it coy Moran."_

"I'm not sure," Sebastian said pulling apart his gun, which he had just brought out to clean. "You know I've a crappy memory."

"But, _come on!_" Jim said, still sounding playful, but with a hint of steel glinting in his eyes "Even you can get this one."

"Ummm…" Sebastian swore in his thoughts, which were completely blank with ideas.

"_Come on brain! Don't forsake me now! I know we haven't always gotten along…"_ Sebastian closed his eyes and concentrated.

"Can you give me a hint?" he asked meekly.

"You don't _need_ a hint." Jim insisted, the mirth totally gone from his voice.

"Uhm…" Sebastian was blanking. He wasn't even trying to think, he just knew he couldn't think of it.

However, the flower was setting off signals in his head. He grasped desperately at the pitiful train of thought and ran with it.

Flower, suit, he's really smart, he runs the organization from his computer, no, no, from his _armchair!_

"Um…Nero Wolf?" He asked, thinking of the detective he'd been forced to read about in school (and then secretly continued to read about until his mid-twenties.)

Jim blinked, seeming dumbfounded and Sebastian silently rejoiced and celebrated a victory.

"Who?"

Sebastian reeled in horror, pretending to calmly dismantle his gun and wiping the pieces absentmindedly with his cloth, like an automaton. He had been so _sure!_

"I guess that wasn't it then?"

Jim's dark eyes sparkled cruelly. He reached around his jacket, and from hem of his pants he pulled out a small handgun.

Sebastian froze; his heart racing and his mind rushing. If Jim chose to shot him, what would he do? Get shot? That wasn't an option.

"I'll give you one hint." Jim said holding the gun innocuously.

"Leave the gun, take the cannoli." He said in a thick, indescribable accent, gesturing with his hands vaguely.

Sebastian was still lost, and more horrified than ever.

"No? How can you not get it?" Jim asked incredulously.

"Is it…the son of the mob?" Sebastian asked, deciding he had nothing left to loose.

"Getting warmer!" Jim said.

"Mob… Mob boss?" Sebastian asked blankly.

Jim bounced over to him on his Italian leather shoes and slapped him innocuously on the top of his head with the butt of the gun I'm Vito Corleon, Don Corleon! The Godfather!" and he stormed away to change into his normal clothes.

That year, Halloween was canceled. Jim rented The Godfather parts one and two and made Sebastian watch them both with him, which is to say he handcuffed Sebastian to the couch. Sebastian lost his chance to finish the job and a perfectly good shot was wasted, but every so often he would mutter under his breath "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer." And Jim would grin like an ape.


	8. Chapter 8: The Party At Last

**Why am I continuing this so long after Halloween? You tell me?**

* * *

"Anthea...This isn't the way to my house."

"I know that sir. You know that." She stated stoically behind the wheel of the car.

"Then where are we going." He pressed.

She remained stoically silent, letting only a mysterious smile play over her lips when the car slid into shadows, and when she thought Mycroft couldn't see it.

When Anthea pulled up next to their office, lit only by an eerie green glow and the flaming faces of about two dozen Jack-o-lanterns Mycroft groaned and sank in his seat.

"I do believe I vetoed this operation."

"Apologies, sir, but now it's over your head."

"Do you honestly think he's stupid enough to try something at the company Halloween party?"

"No sir, I think he's brilliant enough."

* * *

**It might have something to do with there being so many Halloween decorations still up in my house, or maybe I just want to see what Mycroft would do at the party.**


	9. Chapter 9: Texts at the Party

**I just want to get this out of my head and I can't wait for next Halloween to do it, so Merry Thanksgiving everybody!**

* * *

MH: I want to leave

A: Not yet. I think I see him.

MH: That's what you said last time.

DD: West, fifty meters. Beside the photo booth.

A: Fatigues?

DD: That's him.

MH: No it's not. That's Mr. Savage.

A: To the right of him.

MH: oh.

MH: What are you waiting for?

A: Him to make a move.

MH: If that thing on his back is a real gun, then his first move could be his last.

A: We won't let it get to that sir.

MH: What is this blasted song and when does it end?


	10. Chapter 10: The Caramel

**Who else demands to see Anthea in season 3? I can't be alone on this!**

* * *

Mycroft stood stock still in the center of the Halloween party raging on around him. It was actually a formal event and most of the people he knew were wearing costumes similar to his, a slight change from their normal outfits.

He made it a point not to lift his arms, just in case someone he knew was wondering if he was in costume.

"Mycroft old boy, it's about time we see you at one of these parties." One dour member of the Diogenes club said cheerily as he slapped him on the back.

Mycroft turned and smiled his official "Do not touch me again" smile, sparking idle chat about the schnauzers that so-and-so kept in his country home and other useless pleasantries that he never actually listened to.

Suddenly, his PA's voice rings in his earpiece urgently.

"Sir, there is a caramel on the floor do you see it?"

Confused he opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts him off. "Bend over and pick it up!"

He does as he's told, and as he grabs the candy with the tips of his fingers he feels a whooshing breeze pass over his back. He looks up and sees a small hold in the wall opposite him. _A bullet hole_.

"Anthea…"

"On it." She reassures him. Then her voice is gone and the line goes dead.


	11. Chapter 11: Anthea?

MH: where are you?

A: In the fray.

MH: Where is he?

A: Opposite me.

MH: Back up?

A: Coming.

MH Where are you?

A: ned help


	12. Chapter 12: I don't work holidays!

"I don't work holidays." Sebastian Moran said for the final time.

"You'll work this holiday!" Jim said waving his unloaded pistol at his favorite sniper, who was quickly becoming his least favorite.

"Would you quit waving that thing around? It's not a toy!" he said trying to grab the gun from his excitable boss.

"You have to go!" Jim whined. "They think you're going to be there!"

"Which is exactly why I'm not going." Sebastian huffed. "Maybe I would have if I had the element of surprise on my side, but you gave me away. I'm not into suicide missions."

"Yes you are." Jim said, easing himself into a steady pout.

"No I'm not."

Jim's eyes narrowed into snake-slits and he hissed out a sinister threat. "I don't need snipers who can't follow orders."

Sebastian weighed his options. Call Jim on his bluff and maybe die, or accept and probably die. Or worse, go to jail.

"If you're not going to be my sniper, you'll just have to be my full time—"

"No." Sebastian said. "I'll do it. But you have to promise me something in advance."

"Anything for you babe." Jim said bating his eyelashes prettily. And creepily.

"You've gotta have a plan to bust me outa the joint if I get caught. Successful or not."

Jim frowned. "You'd better be successful!"

"It's a Holmes. Anything can happen."

"True, true."


	13. Chapter 13:See him?

JM: See him?

SM: Yes.

JM: Grab him?

SM: No.

JM: Why noooooooot?

SM: Because I'm too busy texting my psycho boss.

JM: oh.


	14. Chapter 14: Got him?

**A few weeks of nothing, and now all at once. That's just how I roll.**

* * *

JM: Got him?

SM: no.

JM: Why not?

SM: PA.

JM: Take her out.

SM: Can't.

JM: Why?

SM: Gun to my throat.


	15. Chapter 15: Sebastian's Noir

**Sebanthea? Anthastian? I think I've invented a new pairing!**

* * *

He should have known the Holmes wouldn't have been alone. Every genius has an escort. He just happened to be Jim's.

He also should have known the dame would have been trouble when she sauntered into the crowd of stocky old men chatting idle over long glasses of bubbly, looking like she owned the place.

There was something in the softness of her face that made him look twice. It was a round, pleasant face, naturally tan and framed with wavy brown hair, but he could see a characteristic firmness in her jaw that took him back, back to Iraq.

He smiled wolfishly. She was like him. Combat efficient. In a flash he realized who she was and why she was there and it made him glance back to his target.

The indomitable Mycroft Holmes, chatting with another old crinkly, smiling his pleasant, politician smile and as clueless as a sheep, grazing in a field. Being watched by a wolf.

Sebastian looked up again and locked eyes with the attractive PA, who was shooting him a smoldering glance.

One look said it all: "I see you and I know who you are. You've got balls walking in here and thinking you can do as you damn well please. If you so much as try to hurt my boss I'll burn you with my heat vision."

Sebastian snickered at the monologue in his head and wiped his nose with the back side of one finger, eyes resting on the floor shyly. He hadn't expected to meet an opponent at this party, though he should have been prepared for some kind of opposition. His job had always been a snatch and grab. Now it was about to get tricky.

He pulled his gun off of his back and rested it on the table. It was much too large to be anything but a prop, right? After all, he was dressed as an army colonial tonight.

The PA, however saw the flicker of real murder in his eye and her hand shot up to her mouth. A small plastic microphone vibrated with her voice as trembling fingers tried to steady it. Sebastian pulled the trigger without looking away from the PA and felt the silent jolt of the air gun firing.

He caught a glimpse of Mycroft Holmes ducking from the corner of his eye and realized that he hadn't actually hit anything with his gun, which was both a relief and a disappointment.

"Clever bird." He said picking up the gun and ducking into the crowd. One way or another, he was going to have to deal with the PA before he could get close to the Holmes.

He maneuvered around; making a round-about path through the costumed politicians, before deciding the easiest way to find the PA was to try heading straight for Holmes himself.

He hadn't taken more than ten steps in Holmes's direction before he came face-to-face with a pair of pretty brown eyes.

"I think that's far enough." She said in a sweet soprano, blocking his path with her body.

"I think not." He said trying to side step her, and only bumping into another party goer for his trouble.

"I think so." She insisted, whispering fiercely with a mellow strength. Sebastian was close enough to reach out and wrap her in a bear hug, but he secretly feared she'd take a few cheap shots if he tried.

"I think you want to take this outside." He challenged back.

"I think you're right." She said.

Anthea walked forward, threatening to step on his toes with her black shoes, forcing him to stumble backwards for a few feet before turning around and walking on his own power.


	16. Chapter 16: Texts at Gun point

**BAMF!Anthea and Oopsmyguardwasdown!Sebastian :D Match made in my merry mind!**

* * *

They hadn't made it far, in fact, only to the hallway which led outside before Anthea jumped on him.

First a paralyzing kick to the back of his knee which brought him down with a groan, followed by her arm wrapping around his neck in the hopes of becoming a sleeper hold.

"_Textbook!_" he thought grabbing her upper arm and bucking her off his back before pulling her over his shoulder.

She retaliated with a swift kick to his head as she collided with the cold linoleum floor. He didn't see it coming until it was right next to his eye.

"_Damn, those pointy shoes _hurt!" He though as he kissed the tile and tasted the grit of one-thousand pairs of shiny black shoes.

In the next instant he felt hands at his belt, and he tried to swiftly halt the fingers that danced at his holster, but by the time he had grabbed the slender wrists with his large, strong hands, his gun dug into his gut and metal bit at his flesh.

"Let go." She demanded softly, yet firmly.

With slow reluctance he gently released the smooth skin from the iron clasps of his weather-beaten fists.

She stood above him and aimed the gun just at his face. Then lowered it to just beneath his chin.

"This is kind of hot, isn't it?" He said smiling, trying to diffuse the situation any way he could until he could think of some way to overpower the PA and get his gun back.

Anthea kicked him lightly in the stomach and he grunted.

"Now then." She said tossing her head and throwing her long brown hair over her shoulder. "You're going to sing for me, and I'll just wait for my back up to arrive while I listen, yeah?"

"Sure doll," Sebastian said, feeling very stupid and indignant. "What do you want to hear? _Haiiil Britannia, Britannia rules the waves…"_

He got another kick for his trouble.

"I want to know what Moriarty wants with Mr. Holmes."

"Hey, me too! Let's ask him together."

Anthea lowered the aim of the gun until it was about level with his legs.

In a moment of panic when Sebastian realized that Anthea might have qualms about killing him, but she certainly had no qualms about hurting him he cried out "Wait, wait, wait!"

The gun returned to eye level.

"I, uh… think it might be…. Um." The words that Sebastian wanted to say seemed to swell up in his throat, making breathing impossible.

"Sherlock… uh he…"

Just then his phone rang. Twice. He had a text message. He began to reach into his pocket to get it, but Anthea pulled the safety back on her gun.

He pulled himself up until he was sitting, instead of leaning on his elbows and he put both of his hands in the air.

Speaking calmly, as one might to a startled animal he calmly began to reach for his mobile.

"I'm just going… to see my text…"

"Let me see it." Anthea demanded.

Sebastian smiled ironically "Even my pushiest girlfriends don't read my texts."

"Let me see it."

He slowly reached for his phone, and pulled it out even slower at Anthea's insistence.

JM: Got him?

Sebastian texted : No.

A few seconds later a reply came back: Why not?

Sebastian texted: PA, showed it to Anthea and sent it.

A long pause came before the next text, but it came. Sebastian read it and sighed.

"Let me see it." Anthea demanded.

Guiltily Sebastian turned his phone to her, and she read the words which chilled her blood.

JM: Take her out.


	17. Chapter 17: Where's My Croft?

**Creepy!Jim... oh, no wait. That's always! :P**

* * *

JM: Oh where, oh where has my little croft gone? Oh where, oh where could he be?

MH: I'm not yours.

JM: Not yet.

MH: Yuck.

JM: :P


	18. Chapter 18: A Chat with a Stranger

**More experimenting with Sebanthia/Anthastian... No one's ever done it before and it's a bit fun. I might try harder later, but Jim still has an evil plan in motion here.**

* * *

Sebastian hurriedly texted back a reply; cursing his boss for compromising him so horribly.

"There." He said proudly showing his phone to Anthea. "I can't." he sent the message.

Jim shot back a "Why?"

Sebastian hurriedly, without waiting for Anthea texted "Gun at my throat." Flashed it to her and sent it.

"That's enough texting." She said. "Put your phone away."

Sebastian pretended to put his phone in his pocket, while actually slipping it beneath his pants for safe-keeping.

Anthea was thinking quickly. Her back-up should have been there by now. What was taking them? Could they have been compromised? No, no. _Someone_ had answered her when she had called them in. Was something happening to Mycroft and they were distracted?

"Scared?" Sebastian asked.

"Hardly." Anthea barked coldly.

"Turned on?" Sebastian said half-playfully, half-hopefully.

Anthea made a disgusted face. "What is wrong with you?"

"Well, I'm an attractive man in army fatigues and you're an attractive woman in sexy office clothes. And we're alone in a hallway, I was thinking this sounds like the beginning of a bad romance novel."

"And you'd know all about those, wouldn't you?" Anthea hissed. "Who told you you're attractive? Your boss? He was lying."

"Really?"

"Yes." Anthea pulled out her blackberry. "Now, if you'll oblige me a few texts…"

"By all means, I'm just going to sit here and cry. You've hurt my feelings, you know." Sebastian said sarcastically.

"And I imagine your pride too." Anthea said texting with one hand, her phone resting on her palm.

_"Ouch!_" Sebastian seethed as he watched her playing with her phone, probably texting her boss. The broad was beginning to get on his nerves, and now that she had only one hand training the gun on him, not was his chance.

He picked up his phone and hurled it at the gun…!


	19. Chapter 19: Spiders!

**I'm still continuing this because it's the only writing I can afford to do now that my time is a form of currancy. Even though I know you all are sick and tired of Halloween.**

* * *

"I'm bored." Sherlock complained.

"Help me put up some decorations." John asked from where he was carefully placing spiders inside Sherlock's skull so that they looked like they were crawling out.

"Boooooooooring."

"You never help me decorate for holidays." John complained.

"What's the point?"

"It's fun and looks cool!" John insisted.

"But you're just going to take it down the day after anyway." Sherlock said petulantly.

"Fine… If you don't want to help, don't help!" John said huffily.

John left for work a few hours later (he had a night shift) and that left Sherlock bored and alone. A dangerous combination.

When John came back Sherlock as nowhere to be seen but there was a note on Sherlock's violin. "John Don't go into your room."

Naturally the first place John wanted to go was into his room, but he waited a bit just to make sure that there was truly no one in the flat, and that nothing was on fire.

Once he was certain he couldn't smell smoke he began to climb the stairs to his room, making as much noise as he could in the process.

He kicked open his door with a bang and his jaw dropped in disbelief.

There were cobwebs over every surface, his bookshelves were curtained, and every wall sported wispy drapes. His desk had become one large cocoon and his bed….where was his bed?

Where his bed had been, now only a bright rectangle and an impossibly large elliptical ball of fluff remained.

"Sherlock." John called down into the flat marching around the human-sized chrysalis of artificial spider webs "What have you done to my room?"

The flat was totally silent. John ran his fingers through his hair angrily, thinking only of how long it would take to clean the entire spider-disaster. He picked a plastic spider off of the wall where it was hopelessly tangled and tossed it in disgust to the floor, where is slammed into the ground dissatisfying with a small sound.

John walked over to the mess of spider webs sitting in the middle of his floor and shouted to his flat-mate, wherever he might have been "You could've at least cleaned up after yourself!" and he delivered a hard kick to the bundle.

To his extreme surprise, which is altogether impossible to describe, the cocoon groaned.

John sputtered for a moment, unable to grasp the realization of what has just happened, and the cocoon writhed on the ground.

"Sherlock…_are you in there?_" John asked in horror.

Sherlock didn't exactly answer, but a few seconds of muffled speech followed by a few seconds of wild thrashing told John all he needed to know, and he descended upon the bundle, ripping the cottony threads apart with violent grasping and digging.

With one tremendous yank he unearthed the face of the consulting detective who took a few grateful breaths of air before barking a swift order.

"Quick, my left arm, if you please!"

John tore at the wisps of thread around the detective's left arm and in a few seconds his pale, snaky hand was tearing away at the cotton with dogged focus, working to free the rest of his body.

Finally Sherlock had been severed from a vast majority of the spider-clutch, but long threads and webs still clung to him like ghostly garments. He rolled out of his fuzzy prison and made his way to the only clear side of the room.

"What…" John thought of the best of the dozen or so questions he wanted to ask the consulting detective. "Were you doing in there?"

"Um… I was bored…so…"

"So you decide to entomb yourself in spider webs?"

"It wasn't quite like that." Sherlock said sheepishly picking the white, clinging webbing out of his coal-black hair.

"Oh really?" John said thinking silently I_'ve got to hear this! "_Go on then, what was it like?"

"I mean, you're always complaining how I don't decorate, so I went and bought some decorations, and while I was putting them up I noticed I got too many, and they looked so soft…"

John smiled. Sherlock Holmes could be the most callous, serious person he had ever met, but at times like this he was a thirty-one year old man-child.

"So you decided to roll around in them? Are you insane?"

A brisk wave of his hand dispelled the notion as Sherlock continued, picking up his dignity in a heartbeat.

"I tried shouting, but Mrs. Hudson left a few hours ago."

John put up his palms. "No, hang on. How long were you in that cocoon?"

"Uhh… about four hours."

"_Four hours?"_

"Give or take."

John shook his head. "What am I going to do with you?"

Sherlock straightened his dressing-gown and shook off a few more wisps of webs. "I'm taking a shower right now. I feel like I've still got cotton everywhere."

"You do still have cotton everywhere." John corrected.

"Goodbye." Sherlock said huffily exiting John's room.

John sighed and rested on his knees for a moment, thinking fondly on his flat mate's eccentric behavior. When he happened to look up a thought struck him alarmingly.

"Hold it, where's my bed?"


	20. Chapter 20: Jim's Trick on Seb's Treat

**Theme of the week: poison candy. Don't worry, the resolution to the Halloween party will come up soon.**

* * *

"What are you eating?"

Seb pulled the cherry sucker out of his mouth and smacked his lips together before answering.

"It's just a lollipop; you don't have to be so prying Jim."

Jim's face soured into a gentle pout and he crossed his arms furiously. They'd had a spat and were trying to ignore each other. Frankly Sebastian was surprised that Jim was the first one to break the silence.

Twenty minutes later he was kneeling at the porcelain throne, violently puking up the pathetic contents of his stomach and wondering faintly if the red tinge to his bile was blood, or just the pop.

After a particularly traumatic heave which left him feeling as though he'd been kneed in the gut Sebastian looked up, saliva dripping from his mouth in thick, heavy drops and tears leaking out of his eyes, to find Jim was watching him from the hallway, his face as expressionless as a mask.

"You f-ing A-hole." Seb managed to say, his throat burning from the acid. "You poisoned the candy again, didn't you?"

"It _is_ called trick or treating." Jim explained softly, as though that cleared the whole matter up.

Seb thought only of the children who had shown up at the flat that night for candy, and who were probably suffering just as much as he was, if not worse due to all the candy they ate.

"You see; this is why we can't have nice people." He said grimacing, spiting a burning glob of saliva into the toilet where it couldn't bother him anymore.


	21. Chapter 21: What was in the candy?

Slash? Maybe? Only if you squint!

* * *

"Sherlock, what was in that candy?" John asked for the third time, his voice raised to a high-pitched shriek.

"It was an experiment." Sherlock pleaded.

_"What was in the candy!" _John shouted.

"Just a little…" Sherlock started to mumble, but caught himself staring at John in alarm. "John, you might want to sit down!"

"I'm fine!" John said brushing off Sherlock's prodding fingers.

In the next moment however, he also found himself falling into his flat mate's outstretched arms as his legs suddenly wobbled and surprisingly gave way.

He crashed into a warm embrace, and Sherlock eased John to the floor, carefully cradling his head and making sure that no part of John fell too quickly or caused too much damage.

"What was in the candy?" John asked calmly, but with the hint of urgent alarm.

Sherlock murmured "Just a little… knockout drug I've been tinkering with." And John's head sank into his arm, utterly unconscious.

To Sherlock's credit, he checked every half hour to make sure John was still alive, and to see if the effects of the drug would wear off. In the morning John awoke on the floor, feeling refreshed and invigorated, with a thin blanket over him.


	22. Chapter 22: Chocolate brother?

**Last prepared one for awhile. The resolution to the Halloween party, and then I think I'm done, unless somethige else amazing pops up.**

* * *

"I insist."

"I don't eat when I'm on a case; _Mycroft."_ Sherlock stated the name poignantly in high hopes that his brother would take the hint and continue with matters that were at least of relevance to the issue at hand.

However Mycroft shot him an equally impertinent gaze, in his usual haughty silence which commanded, no; _compelled_ most people to oblige.

Sherlock Holmes was not most people.

"Oh, don't try that look on me, brother dearest; it might work on diplomats—"

"And you were never one for diplomacy, were you Sherlock?"

Sherlock sank into a puckered silence, his sharp analysis being cut to the quick by a single jagged comment.

"Just one?"

"No."

"Sherlock…" John stared at him, his unspoken words symbolizing volumes.

_"We have better things to do and a killer to catch, so stop trying to out-last your brother and eat the darned candy." _John seemed to plead with his eyes.

Sherlock sneered, picking up the plastic-wrapped chocolate with the tips of his fingers, as though it were something faintly poisonous. He loved chocolate. He hated that Mycroft knew even his petty weaknesses.

He ate it almost halfway through the next day, stumbling upon it in his coat pocket and eating it without consideration as to where it came from.

That night he had chased the killer to a small, foreclosed home in the center of London and had been caught by surprise when the accomplice showed up and jumped him from behind, wrapping a thick, brutish arm around his neck and stabbing him in the shoulder with something so thin and cold it could only have been a syringe.

He instantly felt heat permeate through his neck as the liquid chemical began to take effect, numbing him completely wherever it touched.

Instead of taking him down, however, the numbness gave him new courage and new strength. He fought off the accomplice and succeeded in knocking him unconscious by picking him up and throwing him into a wall. No small feat, even though he was a formidable man.

The killer, however, had taken his own life in one of the rooms of the house. Sherlock was too late to stop it.

Later in the back of the ambulance Sherlock argued heatedly with four paramedics that he, in fact, did _ not_ need to go to the hospital and he was sure the numbness would wear off in time.

"It's true." Mycroft said, shooing the paramedics with a few gentle taps of his umbrella. "He's been given the antidote already; there is no real harm to having him sleep off the effects of the drug."

After a few exchanges and a few important names dropped, Mycroft convinced the paramedics to pack up and leave. Sherlock stood in the road, eyeing his brother uncertainly.

"Problem Sherlock?" Mycroft asked tapping his umbrella against the sidewalk.

"You knew what the poison was before I even knew that it had been a poison. You knew I'd confront the killer." He said, trying to restrain his awe to a normal level; very low. He covered it by trying to sound accusatory. "You slipped the antidote on that chocolate you forced on me."

"Mm, yes. Had it been Doctor Watson, the whole affair would have been quite simple; however convincing you of my goodwill has never… well, I'm glad you're alright." Mycroft said in his usual haughty tone.

Sherlock smiled, thinking only of the horrible advantage his brother finally held over him, and wondering when the favor would be called in.

He turned away without a formal goodbye and went to find John, whom he had abandoned in the police station, and ask him for some help limping home. He still couldn't feel his legs.


End file.
